


Mother's Day

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean, Brothers, Flashbacks, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Protectiveness, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6505561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Sam never met his mother, it didn't mean he didn't have one...<br/>Takes place during first season. Contains strong language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in 2007 in _Blood Brothers_ fanzine.

_"A note?"_

_Dean looked at the paper in his hand with a mixture of_ that's my boy _and_ what the hell? _written all over his young face. Usually, it was Dean standing in front of their very tall dad, who luckily was still out hunting for another two days. The ten-year-old looked vaguely uncomfortable with the sudden role reversal._

_"_ You _got a note," his brother repeated incredulously, looking down at Sam who was blinking back up at him, nearly swallowed whole by one of Dean's hand-me-downs, a faded yellow tee their father had shortened with a coarse row of blue thread at the bottom. That way, his father had said, Sammy could get into it again when he was bigger, maybe even when he was as big as Dean. Sam—or Pipsqueak, Dean would call him—but only when Dad wasn't around to hear him—watched the weird expressions go across his older brother's face. Dean had only looked like that once before when he'd swallowed a spoonful of cough syrup wrong._

_"Ms. Farber said I didn't do my schoolwork," Sam muttered…well, more like mumbled ‘cause Dean had to stoop low to hear him. "Dad has to sign it."_

_Dean didn't straighten up, still balancing on his sneakers. He tilted his head and considered Sam. "You didn't do your schoolwork?" Dean looked like he'd just been told Santa Claus was really one of those invisi…trans—nuts, Sam forgot the word again—poultry ghosts their dad was always hunting._

_"You didn't do your work?" Dean repeated, like it was hard to believe, or maybe he hadn't heard him correctly._

_Sam sniffled and stared at the floor, refusing to wipe his nose again. He didn't want Dean to call him a crybaby like the other kids did._

_"I did, too," Sam defended, staring down towards his sneakers and the untied laces. He got mad; he tried tying them the way Dean had showed him before but they kept getting undone. Stupid shoes. Stupid laces. Stupid class project._

_"Then why would Ms. Fart-face say that you didn't?"_

_This time, Sam didn't laugh. Dean didn’t like his kindergarten teacher, said she smelled like fart, whatever that meant. He thought it was pretty darn funny, but their dad didn't, especially after Dean accidentally said it to her face when he tried to pick up Sam early. Dean had to clean all the guns and sharpen the knives for that one._

_"Sammy?"_

_Sam rummaged around in his backpack and fished out a slightly rumpled piece of blue construction paper, still damp and sticky from the glue he'd used on the cut outs he'd pasted. With a tiny fist, he held the paper up to Dean, his lower lip sticking out._

_Dean took the paper and opened it. He gave Sam a funny look._

_"Suppose to be a card." Sam pouted, finally looking up at his older brother, who was still studying the card. Dean turned it around front again and stopped._

_"It's a Mother's Day card," he said in case Dean couldn't read the line on top._

_Dean looked at the card and then at Sam again. "It's this Sunday," Dean said, all quiet now. He sounded like their father every time Dad was looking at some old photos from before “The Fire,” as Dean called it._

_"You put my name on it," Dean said, confused, turning the card again to look at his name all sloppy with the sprinkles, fat balloon-like letters, and colored with the purple crayon—he couldn't find the brown one that was Dean's favorite._

_Sam sniffled again, this time wiping his eyes. He could still hear the others laughing when Ms. Farber read each of their cards out loud. "I told her Mom's in Heaven and she said it's okay. She said I could choose a ma-ma turn…finger."_

_"Maternal figure," Dean automatically corrected him. Dean always knew what Sam was trying to say even if Sam couldn't remember the words right._

_"Sammy, I'm a boy," Dean pointed out, still looking at the card like it was one of those funny chanting symbols their dad was trying to teach them._

_He looked at Dean, exasperated. "I know," Sam said, annoyed. Well, duh._

_"You can't make this card for me," Dean said carefully, the same way he'd talked to him about how to tie those stupid laces after Dean found out he'd stapled them together._

_"Why not?"_

_"I think Ms. Farber meant like a girl or something."_

_"No, she didn't." Sam scowled. He scrunched up his nose when sniffling didn't make it stop._

_"Sammy, I think she did," Dean tried to correct him._

_"No, she didn't!" He'd told Ms. Farber after her explanation on mommy fingers to the class. She pursed her lips like she was sucking a lemon when Sam pointed out that she didn't say it was supposed to be a girl. That was dumb. Where was he going to find one of those? That's what he'd said to her. That's why he'd gotten the stupid note. He would have thrown it away if she hadn't given it to Dean first when he came for Sam, instructing in that silly stuffy nose voice of hers that Dean needed to make sure their father read it and signed it. Judging by the giggling in the back, Sam was pretty sure she'd said it loud enough for everyone to hear. "She just said a ma-turn-al finger who takes care of you, makes breakfast and...and…when you're sick…"_

_Dean didn't say anything as Sam rattled off the list between the hiccups that came out of nowhere. Between that and his runny nose, he was finding it hard to tell Dean. He blinked furiously towards the floor. Sam tried to list all the stuff his teacher was explaining to the class; all the stuff Dean did anyway. Making the meals, taking him to school, fixing those scrapes when Sammy fell, and…_

_Somewhere between telling Dean about fixing the buttons on his shirt and telling him the stories at night, a tissue appeared. Sam stopped. He sniffed and stared at his older brother._

_"Blow." Dean waved the tissue under his nose. He made a face when Sam did, a big honk that was more tears than nose. He didn't say anything though, silently offering another one, pretending not to see when Sam used it to wipe his eyes instead. Dean gave Sam's shoulder an awkward little pat like he didn't know what else he was supposed to do._

_"You could throw it away. She wants me to do another card, anyway." Sam tried to take the dumb thing back, but Dean suddenly stood up and that wrinkled piece of blue paper with the house and car Sam had carefully cut out was now out his reach. Dean raised an eyebrow, lifting the card higher when Sam tried to jump for it._

_"Dean! Give it back!"_

_Dean ignored him and Sam was tempted to stomp on his foot. Someday, he was going to be bigger than Dean and hold all his stuff out of reach, too._

_"Ms. Farber said I have to do a new one," Sam complained. Not that he really wanted to. He jumped again, almost losing his balance and falling back to the kitchenette table._

_"Your teacher is a fart-face," Dean muttered under his breath as he opened the card up once more. He stuck out a hand and gripped Sam's shoulder before he could knock into the edge of the table._

_A weird expression came over Dean’s face and he looked down at Sam. "You spelled my name wrong," he said, pointing out the two fat purple 'e's, then snatched the card away before Sam could make a grab for it. He very carefully folded it in half and stuffed it down into his back pocket. Abruptly, Dean turned towards the tiny living room their cramped apartment over the garage had. "Come on, I was going to make PBJ's for dinner. Better make your own since you don't like the way I put the jelly."_

_"But Ms. Farber—"_

_Dean shrugged. "She doesn't know what she's talking about." He stuck his face in the fridge and studied their options. "Do you want grape or raspberry?"_

_Sam made a face. He didn't like either, but Dean always insisted on some kind of fruit thing. Said it was so they wouldn't get curvy…or scurvy or something. "But the teacher's note—"_

_Dean heaved a sigh, sounding like their father again. He pulled the note out of his front pocket, smoothed the paper out on the greasy old Formica counter. Grabbing the pen their dad stuck on the fridge with a magnet in case Joshua or Caleb called for him, Dean made a huge show of writing something on it and with a "ta da," handed it over to Sam._

_Big loopy letters that read "John Win-"—Sam couldn't read the rest—was scrawled sloppily on the line at the bottom of the note. It went over the big "x" and "sign here" Ms. Farber had written in bright red ink with an unhappy face._

_"Well?" Dean asked impatiently. He leaned against the open fridge._

_A sniffle, and Sam wiped his nose with the used tissue. He looked at the name doubtfully. It_ did _kinda look like his dad had signed it… "So I don't have to make a new one?" he asked warily._

_"Duh, stupid, I signed the note, remember?"_

_Somehow when Dean called him that, it didn't sound as mean as when the other kids said it. Sam had told that to Dean once and for some reason, Dean got very, very mad so Sam never mentioned it again._

_"Sammy?" Dean folded his arms in front of him. "If you don't hurry up and choose, I'm going to put ants in your peanut butter instead."_

_Sam folded the note and slipped it into his notebook. He looked up at his brother. "Can I have banana?"_

_He never did see that card again. Dean probably threw the stupid thing away.  
_

He didn't know why all of the sudden he'd remembered that.

Sam Winchester opened his eyes. They felt heavy and hot, actually, which gave him a momentary _what_ _the_ _hell_? when he finally realized they were open. Automatically, he looked up at the ceiling. Dingy white spackle greeted him. Nothing else. Thank God.

Crappy floral wallpaper tried desperately to match stained yellow paint on the other half of the wall and failed miserably. Hard mattress, lumpy pillows shoved uncomfortably behind him, crooked mirror hanging on the wall. Okay, motel room. That much he could figure out. And they were in…shit, Indiana? Ohio? Michigan? Which part of _nowhere_ was he in?

"Luckily, we'd already salt-and-burned it, otherwise I would have liked to re-kill the _bitch_ ," someone muttered darkly to his left. A sneeze, then, "Who ever heard of ice skating in May? Freak couldn’t have read a calendar?"

Oh, yeah. Michigan. A _paija_. They were hunting a _paija_ skimming Lake Michigan; a nice little Inuit monster that somehow found its way to the bottom of the lake and froze its waters and the surrounding area despite being the middle of May. And like any nine-foot monster with long claws that hung all the way to the ground and a taste for lost, cold hikers, the _paija_ was taking insult to anyone crossing its self-proclaimed territory. “A hiker smoothie,” Dean had scoffed when he’d first circled the article at a rest stop. _Paijas_ preferred dragging mauled hikers into the frozen lake and keeping them there. 

“They're Inuit. Isn't that Canadian? Does Homeland Security know we're being invaded by _Canadian_ monsters now?” Dean had complained as they trudged up the snowy slopes, grunting under the weight duffel bag. 

Sam argued they really should research the phenomena further; driving non-stop for thirty hours warranted a break. Dean was determined to get this job done and head right out to the next one in Auburn. 

They didn't know how to kill it, but Dean was sure any one of their machetes, knives, or shotguns would work. And to Sam's dismay, Dean also included a very unwieldy battle-ax. Sam was huffing by the time they reached the shore of the last sighting. Somehow Dean had managed it so Sam was carrying the heavy ax in his duffel.

Sam watched Dean furiously rubbing his nose before sneezing violently into a tissue. Then he crumpled it up and flipped it over his shoulder. It landed with the others in the wastebasket.

Shifting a little, Sam realized the reason he could see all this was because he was sitting up in bed. Well, three pillows high, at least.

"Hey." Dean stopped pacing just between the two beds. He narrowed his eyes, studying Sam critically. "You awake for real now or are you going to pull a Ken Kesey on me again?"

Huh? Sam stared at Dean blankly. 

Dean must have taken that to be "yes" because he walked over, already targeting Sam's forehead with the back of his left hand. Normally, Sam would have shrugged away, but oddly enough, Dean's hand appeared to be weighing him down. All he could do was sink deeper into the pillows behind him, heavy-lidded eyes tracking his brother.

Dean pulled his hand away and pursed his lips. Apparently, whatever he found didn't make him happy. "Think you can stay awake long enough to take these at least?" A quick tap of a bottle against his palm tumbled out two white pills. He rummaged around the pile of blankets Sam seemed to be buried under, fished out his hand, and dropped the pills into Sam’s palm. "Just take them, Sam."

Sam obeyed even before he realized he did. He gagged on the chalky pills, accepting the cup of water Dean offered with a shaky hand. Sam closed his eyes briefly. He didn't realize he was thirsty until the cool liquid made its way soothingly down his throat.

"Antibiotics," Dean explained as he offered another disposable cup of water. "Doc said you gotta finish the entire prescription." He scrubbed a hand across the back of his head as he stood over Sam's bed. "We'll head out to Auburn tomorrow or Friday if you're feeling a little better. See if that fever stops deep-frying your brain first. Auburn's about ten hours away and I could see what's up with that house in the meantime."

Wait. Antibiotics? Doctor?

The confusion must have been evident in his face. Dean snapped his mouth shut, his brow knitted with concern even though the rest of his face was bland.

"Hey." Dean grabbed his left blanketed knee and gave it a shake. He waited until Sam was looking at him. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Sam blinked at Dean. His throat felt dry, it was hard to take a breath, and he had the oddest sensation that he was looking down at himself. His brother sat at the edge of the bed, his mouth pressed into a thin line, looking at him like he was wondering if Sam was a good witch or a bad witch. Dean's hand remained on his knee; the weight felt warm, solid, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the bed. 

Dean removed his hand and stretched over to slide a hand to his forehead again, then muttered darkly under his breath. Sam couldn't make out the words, but he thought he caught "quack" and "sleep it off, my ass" and something vaguely about sticking someone's ass in some place very, very small.

"Sammy?"

_It's Sam_ he wanted to say. Dean was still not getting the fact that Sam wasn't that chubby twelve-year-old boy anymore. 'Course it didn't help that every time Dean used the moniker, Sam responded to it like Pavlov's bell drooling dogs.

" _Sammy_ …"

Uh-oh, not good. Dean was using his _you're freaking me out and it's pissing me off_ voice. Sam looked up. "Paija," he rasped. Geez, what the hell was that? Sounded like a Wendigo snoring. And it felt like he was breathing through nails. He swallowed hard—damn, that really hurt—and tried again. "Hunting…paija."

It wasn't the prettiest sound, but Dean grinned like it was that blonde Pamela Anderson look-alike waitress cooing in his ear a few towns back. 

"You sound like Marlon Brando with laryngitis," Dean teased. He sobered and gave Sam's knee another pat. "What else?"

_You mean there was more?_ Sam frowned and racked his brain. He remembered them driving up to Lanford on a vague article Dean found about local weather phenomena and the tragic disappearances of a few hikers. Sam remembered checking the library and Dean asking the locals…

"Dude, that girl in the bar totally shot you down," Sam rasped, grinning as much as he could towards Dean. His older brother scowled.

"Great, _that_ you remember," Dean griped. "I meant the hunt, Sam. What do you remember about the hunt?"

Sam remembered hiking to the lake, still marveling how it could ten below when the outside world was a warm eighty degrees. There was nothing was in Dad's journal about it, yet Dean was dead set on getting it done and moving on. Dean was never a guy to stand still, but the past few days, he’d been vibrating with unused energy and a single-minded attitude that reminded Sam too much of their missing father for comfort. Dean didn't even want to stop for gas until Sam pointed out they were nearing empty.

It wasn't until Sam happened to notice the date that he opted to say nothing more about it. He remembered when he was younger, it was a date better left unmentioned—his father always on a hunt, Dean brooding somewhere away from Sam.

He remembered waiting out there with Dean and it was cold; he was glad Dean insisted on Sam taking his thicker flannel shirt. They waited for hours, watching hikers and a few adventurous ice fishermen come and go, Sam debating on the wisdom of bringing up the date. It was just so cold, watching Dean's impatient huffs come out of his mouth as cloudy wisps. Then, the sound of a loud crack, a long shadow snaking under the frozen lake. Dean barely had time to reach for his shotgun when the ice cracked completely and a huge claw reached over and—

"Dean!" Sam sat up with a shout, startling Dean. Dean barely righted himself back up, nearly falling off the bed. 

The claw had latched onto Dean's leg. He yelped, his outrage quickly swallowed up as he was pulled down beneath the ice. Dean resurfaced long enough for Sam to locate, shouting something to Sam before he was pulled down again. Sam grabbed the fallen shotgun and ran, tracking the beast's shadow below. He shot the slithering shadow beneath the ice with the shotgun twice. No rock salt; Dean had opted for real bullets this time. The ice cracked, but the shadow wasn't heading his way. Shit, shit, shit! 

"Dean!" Sam could still feel the icy water slicing through his body. God, it was so cold. He felt all the air in his lungs pushed out and he coughed and coughed and coughed. It wouldn't stop long enough to let him draw in air. His arms flailed until they were pinned to his sides. 

"Sam! God damn it, breathe! _Breathe_!"

He felt someone pounding on his back. Sharp smacks that kept forcing more coughs out. He wanted to tell them to stop; that it hurt, but every time he tried to speak, he exploded into more coughing. Air. He needed air, but he couldn't inhale or the ice water would flow in and he had to get to the shadow in the distance. Dean. He needed to get to Dean.

"S'okay. S'okay, I got you. I'm right here. Take it easy." 

The hazy veil lifted and Sam blinked wearily, disoriented by the fact he was sitting up higher now, his arms gripping the back of Dean's jacket so tightly his fingers couldn't unclench without help. Sam could see the carpet, and when he inhaled, he got air and a reassuring whiff of leather.

Dean propped him up, letting him rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. One solid arm wrapped around his middle keeping him up. He could hear Dean breathing harshly on one ear. The other hand was making soothing circles between his shoulder blades, the hypnotic up and down motion loosening the glass that seemed to be rattling in his chest. He gulped desperately, suddenly realizing he could breathe, and he felt moisture skimming down his face from his bout. He blinked and thought he tasted salt. 

It wasn't until the second gasp of stale motel air that vaguely tasted like cigarettes that Sam realized he was being rocked. Dean didn't seem to be aware of it either, still holding onto Sam like he had in Lawrence—another time when breathing was taken away from him—rubbing his back until the last of the frantic wheezing was smoothed out.

Suddenly Dean stopped, his hand stilled. "Okay?" he asked gruffly.

Sam could only nod. He couldn't lift his head off Dean's shoulder. It eerily felt too much like Lawrence, the agony of fighting for air abruptly leaving and the rock solid presence of his brother breathing in unison like he was choked as well.

He felt himself being lowered. Dean's callused hand slipped to the nape of his neck and lowering him carefully onto the pile of pillows. Sam gasped out his thanks but it came out sounding like "hunks." He looked, red rimmed and still tearing, at Dean. He thought he saw worry furrowing Dean's brow but it smoothed out and Dean just raised an eyebrow at him.

"Should I take that as a yes, then?"

Sam laughed, or tried to anyway, as the minute he inhaled, a cough hacked out of him. He felt himself sitting up, curling in, and wrapping his arms around his rib cage. His eyes watered. God, it hurt so much to breathe.

"Okay, cut that out," Dean said sharply. He pushed Sam down and pulled the bedspreads over him, effectively pinning him. "I would have thought you'd have gotten tired of trying to see if you could hack out your organs by now."

Okay, gross. Sam glowered at Dean, not quite a convincing job since he was under a hideous spread of yellow and red roses writhing on the brown fabric. Judging by Dean's expression, it probably looked better than him right now.

"It pulled you under," Sam gasped out.

"Yeah, you jumped in after me and probably drank a tank's worth of hiker smoothie." Dean darkened. He ran a hand across his hair, bringing it to spikes. "Thanks for the rescue, by the way," he added wryly. His nostrils flared as he stood over Sam. "What part of 'stay back' did you not understand?"

Dean grumbled under his breath but it was loud enough for Sam to hear. "I had to pull _you_ out after slicing and dicing the paija. Nothing like dragging two hundred pounds of shivering geek across the woods when you can't even feel your own toes."

Sam glared at him. "You're welcome, jerk," he wheezed. He laid his head back, took a deep breath, willing his chest to relax. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy.

A tap to his cheek jerked him awake. 

"Oh, no you don't." Dean kept tapping until Sam's eyes were fully open again. "Now that you're awake, I want you to eat something."

"Deean." Shit, he wasn’t whining, was he? Sam clamped his mouth shut when his brother smirked. Dean sobered and cleared his throat. The bed bounced a little as Dean rose and walked over to the table, and rifled through the greasy paper bag. Sam wrinkled his nose as his brother pulled out a covered Styrofoam cup and a spoon. Dean sat back down at the side of Sam's bed again. He ignored Sam's groan as he pulled the lid off and used the spoon to mix whatever was inside.

"I'm not really hungry," Sam protested weakly.

"You should be, considering the last thing I was able to get you to swallow was tea yesterday." Dean twirled the spoon and pulled out a mound of steaming white…stuff, dripping with some sort of gravy. 

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam's disgusted look. "What? Don't tell me I have to do the here's-the-airplane thing again? Didn't you outgrow that when you were three?" Dean smirked and made a show of the spoon flying. "Okay Sammy, here comes the aiiirplane…"

Sam's stomach twisted. Whether he really wasn't really starving or whatever that was dripping over Dean's cupped hand was grossing him out, Sam couldn't find the energy to be hungry.

"Dean, really, I don't—" Sam yelped when the spoon dove into his mouth. "Damn it, Dean!" he huffed around the mouthful of mush. Dean's brow went up and down as Sam was forced to swallow whatever it was. Soft, smashed and…huh?

"Mashed potatoes." Dean smirked. "Figured it would be easier to swallow right now. Diner across the street actually makes them from scratch. Gravy, too. " 

Sam swallowed again cautiously. It actually wasn't bad, but he drew the line at Dean feeding him. He clamped his mouth shut when Dean tried to give another spoonful.

"Fine." Dean rolled his eyes. He set the cup on top of the blanket. "You better finish that or I'm tying you down and pouring it down your throat." Dean went back to the table, reached into the bag, and pulled out a burger. He deposited himself on his neatly made bed—since when does Dean make his bed? Dean raised the wax paper bundle in the air, offering to Sam silently, sighing loudly when Sam shook his head.

Sam stirred his mashed potatoes listlessly.

"Eat it, Sam." Dean's voice brooked no argument. "Dude, you haven't eaten all day."

"How long?" Sam wheezed as he gulped down another spoonful. He appreciated the warmth and the mushy texture. Sam looked over at Dean. His brother was surreptitiously watching him when he thought Sam wasn't looking, hazel eyes tracking Sam's spoon as it went up and down.

"Two days," Dean said casually, but his knuckles were white when he unwrapped the burger before putting it to his mouth. He paused, his mouth opened as he added, "You've been back since last night."

"Two days? Back?" Sam was mystified and his hand stilled. "From where?"

"ER," Dean remarked. "Must have been something in the water you swallowed. You got sick that night." He dug his teeth into the burger and jerkily tore off a piece. "Took you to the ER next morning," he said around a mouthful of food.

Sam gawked at Dean. "I-I don't remember any of that."

Dean shrugged but his eyes were staring at their packed duffel bags sitting against the wall in front of him. "Doesn't surprise me. Your brain was getting deep-fried that night." Another bite, then Dean grabbed any clean napkin he could find and wiped it hastily across his mouth. Sam could have sworn he saw a muscle in his jaw twitched. "I think your fever spiked past a hundred and four at one point and nothing was bringing it down." Dean glanced over at Sam and frowned. "I don't see the spoon moving, Sam."

Sheepishly, Sam took another bite, aware of Dean watching as he swallowed, relaxing when it went down okay. Dean rose to his feet again and busied himself cleaning up the table, setting aside two more cups, which Sam assumed was more of the same. Sam looked at the dark smudges under Dean's eyes, his hair in a wild mess of spikes, the way he was walking cautiously. Sam tensed when he caught sight of white gauze peeking through under Dean’s shirt when he reached over for his journal before sitting back on the bed. Dean had been religiously filling it with everything they'd encountered so far. His brother leaned against the headboard, his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. 

"You okay?" Sam whispered. It was still too hard to speak. He scanned his brother but didn't see anything else worrisome.

Dean followed Sam's gaze to the bandage on his lower torso. He calmly pulled his shirt hem back down. "Needed a couple of stitches," he said, shrugging nonchalantly as he flipped to an empty page. Dean pulled his pen out, gnawing at the cap as he flipped to the front of the journal. Dean's other hand twitched as he drummed his fingers against the worn leather. Sam wondered how long he’d had the black journal; he didn't have it when Sam left for Stanford. What other changes in Dean had happened after he left? Suddenly, he felt even more nauseated. 

Dean swore when a couple of items he had tucked inside the journal fell to the floor. Random articles, napkins with numbers, and scraps of colorful paper fluttered down like confetti.

"Sorry," Sam said miserably as he watched Dean hastily shove them in the side pocket and toss the journal back on the bed. 

"For what?"

Sam wasn't really sure. "I know you wanted to go as soon as the job was done." Sam's gaze followed his brother as he moved to the front of the bed and started flipping through the channel guide. Sam felt ill watching flickering image after flickering image on the TV screen.

"We could head out now before the sheriff comes around asking," Sam suggested. "I can rest in the car." 

Dean grunted and kept playing with the remote, his knee bouncing up and down as he channel surfed. "Sheriff's a little busy fishing out bodies now that the lake's thawed." Dean paused, his eyes drifted back to the duffel bags. He glanced back over at Sam. "Maybe if your fever goes down more in the morning." Suddenly, Dean's mouth stretched to a grin. "'Sides, I gotta disinfect the car. You probably filled my baby up with your cooties." Dean pretended to shudder. 

Cooties? What was he, five? Sam stared at Dean, who was chortling at the television—"Hey look, dude, it's amateur night!"—snickering at the hapless archeologist waving an ineffective torch at the approaching peril. Dean pointedly ignored Sam's eye rolling, but did clear his throat, reminding Sam to finish his meal.

Sam shoved another spoonful into his mouth. He shook his head and winced, realizing that wasn't such a good idea when his head spun. Sam blinked rapidly, squelching the sickening sensation he was standing on a merry-go-round, spinning faster and faster with no end in sight. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the world would slow again. The darkness ironically helped and Sam couldn't find it in him to open his eyes again.

"Dude, you are _so_ lucky my camera phone is sitting at the bottom of that lake."

A warm chuckle to his left almost made him open his eyes. Sam felt a hand very carefully pry the cup from his fingers and the spoon from his mouth. Dean gripped his shoulder briefly, tucked his hand under the covers, and the television suddenly sounded very far away.

 

 

_Sam shuffled to the side as yet another kid darted past him to greet his parents. He tried not to stare as his classmate grabbed hold of their hands, giggling and dragging them inside._

_It's not like it was_ super _important._

_He kicked the gravel under his foot and watched one pebble dance away from him. It was knocked violently off course when a bunch of kids playing tag tramped by._

_His first grade teacher, Mr. Clark told the class they had one every other month. Dad could come next time. The drawings Sam had placed very carefully in the center of his desk—he checked with the ruler he borrowed from Mr. Clark—weren't very interesting. Not like the drawings he made at home of the monsters Dad described every time he got back from a hunt. He couldn't really draw them in school because Mr. Clark said they were “imaginary.” Huh. Too bad their dad couldn't tell him the truth. Dean said they'd piss in their pants._

_Another kid ran past, this time deliberately knocking his elbow into Sam. Not even a "Sorry!" as he ran to the playground's front gate to greet his dad. Sam looked at the slides to his right, ignoring the smirk Eddie gave him when he walked by. As soon as the boy walked past into the school, Sam sat down on the wooden bench, biting back the urge to whimper and nurse his side where Eddie had elbowed him. That really hurt. Stupid Eddie. Since kindergarten, the boy had made it his business to make Sam's life miserable. Of course, it could be because Eddie was still peeved at Sam for denting his nose back in kindergarten. Sam snickered, remembering the funny bump Eddie still sported on his nose._

_The playground was slowly emptying. Sam watched the last kid greet her mom. He waved at her and she cheerfully waved back before going in._

_The pictures were dumb anyway. And last month's exams were taken down from the board so it wasn't like he had some great test with a huge star tacked to it to show his dad._

_Sam stared hard at his shoes. He bent down and tugged the laces loose. He bit his lower lip as he practiced tying them again. Sam tried not to look up when the school bell rang._

_“Make them into loops.” Sam recited what Dean had told him. His eyes hurt. Sam blinked rapidly and stared harder at his laces. “Cross them over,” he continued and sniffed real hard. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Tuck one over…” It was getting harder and harder to see his laces as he pulled the loop through carefully. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve again. It was getting wet, so he used the other one._

_A shadow crossed over his feet. "Hey."_

_Sam looked up. Dean stood over him, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The eleven-year-old offered a hand and pulled him up. If Dean noticed Sam’s sleeves were wet, he didn't say anything._

_"Hey." Sam took his time and brushed the dirt and grass off his jeans before he took Dean’s hand. He peered behind his brother, biting back his question when he saw no one else, then quietly pulled up his book bag over his shoulder._

_"Dad's not back yet," Dean explained as if Sam had asked. "I got back and he called saying it might be another day.” Dean scratched his ear, looking past Sam at the front door. "Guess that black dog was harder to catch than he thought. He asked Caleb to help."_

_Sam looked up, worried._

_"He's okay, Sam," Dean reassured him. "I talked to him on the phone." Dean grinned crookedly. "That's why I'm late. You know Dad, him and all those rules."_

_Sam wordlessly nodded. Shrugging up his book bag, he walked past Dean towards the front gate._

_"Where are you going?" Dean asked, baffled. He had one foot dangling above the front step, screwing up his face at Sam when he realized his little brother was going the other way._

_"Going home?" Sam blinked back at him, confused._

_"I thought you told Dad it was open house today." Dean frowned. "Did I get the date wrong?"_

_Sam stared at Dean and shook his head mutely._

_"Well, hurry up then, will ya?" Dean waved at him. Sam brightened, hurried over and ducked under Dean's outstretched arm. Dean nudged him with his elbow, his grin fading when Sam flinched. Sam avoided looking at him; Dean was giving him a funny glance. Sam squirmed, toying with his strap as they went in. He could feel Dean's arm on his shoulder, his hand reaching up and ruffling his hair and that funny lump in his throat went away._

_"Sammy?"_

_Sam looked up questioningly._

_Dean smirked as they approached his classroom. "Which one is Eddie's desk?"_

He could feel his skin burning, pricking waves of agony running up and down his arms. He gasped, trying to pull in air, but his chest was squeezing, tightening. It hurt. It _hurt_. 

"Take it easy. Deep breaths, in and out." A steady voice, urging him to take in more air, try to force through the thick murk that was filling his throat.

Something cold went on his neck and he couldn't help it; he sobbed. Too cold. Too hot. Something else pressed under his arms and he twisted. Hurts, hurts. He couldn’t breathe. His head pounded, and he screamed, "Get Dean! Get Dean!" His arms flailed; he needed to swim to whatever was trying to drown his brother. He heard the outraged shriek like a banshee, but his brother's shout as he was viciously slashed sounded louder. Dean. The paija got Dean. He had to get to his brother.

"Christ, don't do this," a distressed voice was in his ear, breathing harshly, if not more so than Sam. A hand rapidly went up and down on his chest, trying to soothe away the agony cutting into him. Something cool was trickling down his face. "Come on, easy, it's okay. You're okay."

His arms cramped horribly, his legs ached and his limbs felt like they were twisted, gnarled. A voice was crying out. Dean. It was Dean. He had to get to Dean. “ _Dean_!”

"I'm okay. Shhh…you got me out, Sam. You got me out. I'm right here." 

There was a plea in there somewhere; between the fire and ice, the pain, the screaming. God, the screaming. Voices he knew, voices he should know, screaming as they burned, pulling him down with them. Accusations licked at his skin like flames and he writhed to get away.

_Jess…Mom…I'm sorry…I'm sorry for letting you burn…_ He felt like a current was running through him, charging his limbs to flare up in agony. The fire was taking him like he deserved. Sam arched his back and cried out. He wasn't sure if he was crying in pain or in fear he would be left behind.

"Oh, God," the voice cracked. "Okay, it's okay." It didn't sound like it was talking to him. He felt like he was eavesdropping as the voice called out a name over and over again, growing softer instead of louder as it drew closer to his ear. Sam felt himself being manhandled, twisted around, something shoved over his feet. A grunt. Sam felt himself going up and he panicked. He thought he could hear Jess. He screamed as he was pulled to the ceiling. He lurched, his limbs hardened, halting his escape and he slammed into an unyielding surface. 

A strong arm wrapped around his waist. His arm was captured in a strong grip. "Sam, don't worry." Someone was speaking in a low steady voice. "It's okay," the voice huffed. Sam moaned, feeling himself moving against his will. His head throbbed, pounding behind his eyes, shaking out more tears. 

Cold air blasted against his face. Sam flinched, twisting his head away and he banged into something. The dull metallic thud rattled his teeth. Someone swore and placed a hand on top of his head and pushed it down gently. The night suddenly muffled, he felt himself falling until a strong grip braced his shoulders and pushed him upright towards something smooth and cool. But it was still too hot. Sam panted, trying to breathe. A moist towel wiped across his face and a whimper broke free under the cool fabric.

"You're going to be all right," the voice cracked, and the stroking faltered. "I'm getting you help, okay? Hang in there, Sammy." A hand settled on his cramped knee and stayed there as a familiar rumble purred under him.

Sam opened his glassy eyes and stared at the night zipping by. He found himself struggling to breathe, and let the hand on his knee ground him. He followed the passing night, his body thankfully going numb, his eyes too heavy to remain open. The hand on his knee squeezed every so often to remind him not to stray too far.

 

 

_"Samuel?" His teacher, Ms. Farber, crouched down before him. "Your brother's here."_

_Sam nodded glumly and lowered his eyes down to his knee. He made a face at the stupid Sesame Street Band-Aid with its tiny images of Oscar the Grouch. Dean mentioned once it looked like something their dad would have hunted._

_He could hear the small squeak of his brother's sneakers as he drew closer. "Sammy? You okay?" The ten-year-old hopped up onto the examination table, bumping his shoulder against Sam's in greeting. The paper crinkled under his weight. Dean tilted his head, peered up, and studied Sam intensely. Sam blinked back. Dean looked like their dad the day before a hunt, staring at whatever research he needed._

_Dean's eyes drifted down to Sam's knee and frowned. "What happened?"_

_"Samuel had a bit of an accident," Ms. Farber nasally said. She pointed at the nurse sitting by her desk, busy on the phone. "Don't worry. The school nurse said the cut wasn't too deep." She gave Sam a pat on the head, missing the face Dean made. "Didn't cry at all."_

_Dean looked at the teacher then back at Sam. "Accident? What sort of_ accident _?"_

_"Fell off the bars. You know how slippery those can be." She gave Sam another pat._

_Sam gritted his teeth. Should he bark, maybe wag his tail? Stupid Dean kept grinning, and then pretended to bark at Sam when his teacher wasn't looking._

_"Poor Samuel just wasn't ready for those bars yet."_

_Dean mouthed, "Samuel?" then frowned at Sam's teacher. "Sam doesn't fall off bars."_

_"I didn't fall off. I was pushed," Sam muttered grumpily._

_"You're still saying it was Edward?" Ms. Farber sighed really loud. "Your classmates said they saw nothing and Edward was on the ground. Really, Samuel. I don't understand why you can't get along with him." She clucked, shaking her head, and Sam flushed furiously, not meeting Dean's eyes._

_"Edward? Who the hell is Edward?" Dean asked sharply._

_Sam saw Ms. Farber doing her sucking lemon face and he flinched. She didn't sound so cheerful anymore and stood over Dean. His older brother looked at her steadily as if he didn't care Ms. Farber was so much taller than him. Ms. Farber did that a lot. She always stood right over your desk if she thought you weren't doing something right._

_"Young man, we don't use that kind of language. I'm sure your father wouldn't approve."_

_Actually, they'd learned it from their dad. Sam wondered if Ms. Farber would do that lemon sucking face again if he told her._

_Dean inhaled slowly and repeated his question between his teeth._

_"Who. Is. Edward?" Dean almost sounded like Dad, all deep and slow. Sam half-expected to see his dad when he looked up._

_Ms. Farber didn't look impressed with Dean's “Dad” voice. "Just one of Samuel's classmates," she said, waving at Sam like he was a fly. “It's more likely he fell because of his fever."_

_Dean and him both talked at once._

_"I didn't fall—"_

_"Fever? What fever?" Dean ignored his teacher and wiggled around to face Sam. "You told me you were feeling better," Dean accused._

_Sam squirmed in his seat and bit his lower lip. Dean had been telling Sam all week that his class was starting softball today. Ms. Farber had the nurse get him from the gym. Dean had sounded really excited about it._

_"Yes, Samuel, you shouldn't have lied like that," Ms. Farber chided. "Now you might have given germs to your entire class."_

_Sam could feel his ears turning red. "Sorry," he whispered, not looking at either of them. Stupid Eddie. If only he hadn't climbed those bars once he realized Eddie was below._

_He felt Dean's hands on his shoulders, pulling him forward, brushing back the wavy bangs from his eyes. He felt Dean's forehead touching his. Dean said their mom used to do that. Sam wished he could remember that, too. All he remembered was Dean doing that._

_"Doesn't feel too bad," Dean said, winking at Sam. Sam gave him a tentative smile. Guess Dean wasn't_ too _mad at him._

_"Nevertheless, Samuel should go home before he makes his classmates sick." Ms. Farber looked straight at him over her little glasses. "We've been trying to call your father with the number you gave us, Samuel. No one's answering. Are you sure you remembered it correctly?"_

_Dean made a face only Sam could see before turning to his teacher. "_ Sam _has the number right," Dean said stiffly. "Our dad could be working and can't hear the phone."_

_"Well, then Samuel can just stay here until your father picks—"_

_Sam's eyes widened and he grabbed the edge of Dean's t-shirt. Dean ignored the frantic tug._

_"Nah. Actually, our dad works close by. I could call there and he'll just pick us up."_

_"Well…"_

_What was Dean talking about? Sam tugged Dean's shirt, trying to get his attention. Their dad wasn't working. He was_ hunting _. And their dad wasn't close by because otherwise why would he tell them he'd be back in a week? That was faraway, right? Didn't their dad say not to let people know there was no one home to take care of them? Sam didn't understand what the big deal was. They weren't alone. What about Dean? Didn't he count?_

_Sam opened his mouth to tell Ms. Farber just that. A pinch on his arm made him yelp instead._

_"Samuel, did you want to say something?"_

_He flushed. "No, ma'am." When she wasn't looking, Sam punched Dean in the arm. Dean looked at him, grinning when Sam mouthed, "Ow!"_

_Dean squeezed his knee. "Just watch me," he whispered and gave Sam one more wink._

__\----- __

_"I can't believe she believed you would call Dad to pick us up," Sam mumbled; it was hard to talk with his face all smooshed up against Dean's neck. "And why can't I walk?" he whined. He wiggled his feet from his position behind Dean. He hated piggyback. He could never see where they were going. "You hate piggybacks. You said I was too heavy last time," Sam reminded his brother. He tightened his arms around Dean's neck._

_"Because," Dean sounded like he was out of breath, "you might trip again. One skinned knee is bad enough." Dean was walking too bouncy. The back of Dean's bony shoulders kept rubbing against his chest and into his chin._

_"Besides, you're really loopy. Don't want you running into traffic. That would suck. Dad would_ so _ground me!"_

_"Ha, ha," Sam grumbled even though he didn't think it was funny at all. He lowered his head, his chin resting on Dean's shoulder. He was getting tired trying to see around Dean._

_"Man, your fever_ is _high," Dean complained. He turned his head a little, his cheek brushing Sam's forehead. Dean hefted Sam up again, his arms tightly wrapped around Sam's legs._

_"Is not," Sam argued against Dean's hair. It tickled his nose. He wished they didn't live so far away. His arms were getting tired of holding on to his brother._

_"Is, too. I can feel it against me. Dude, you're like on fire." Dean tightened his grip and Sam blinked awake, feeling a little fuzzy. "And stop wiggling around so much back there or I'm going to drop you."_

_"Yeah, right."_

_"I mean, you are kinda heavy, Sammy," Dean teased. "Must be all those Lucky Charms."_

_"Yeah, right, I am not—don't drop me! Don't drop me!" Sam squealed as it felt like Dean was letting go of his legs. "Dean! Cut it out!" Sam clung for all he was worth, wide-awake now._

_"Gak! Stop squeezing my neck!" Dean gasped, staggering in a funny circle like Mumm-ra after Panthro totally beat “the crap” out of him—that was Dean's exact words for it—all wobbly and stuff._

_"Dean, cut it out!" Sam tightened his hold around Dean's neck. His brother was still staggering and Sam squeezed his eyes really tight._

_"Stop hugging me so tight! I'm not Mr. Wubbles, your bear!"_

_"Don't let go!" Sam wailed, now wrapping his legs around Dean's middle, too._

_"Okay, okay, okay!" Dean wheezed and gave up. "Geez. Not like I was gonna drop you for real or something."_

_Sam sniffled. He felt Dean's arms around his legs again, his brother walking steady again. Deep down, Sam knew Dean wasn't lying. He would never drop him. Anyone else he knew would drop him, especially that jerk Eddie. "I'm not heavy," he grumped._

_"Whatever you say,_ Samuel _." Dean snickered._

_"Jerk," Sam muttered. Stupid Ms. Farber insisted on using his “given name.” They didn't give that to him. Dean and his dad called him “Sam” or “Sammy.” He took a deep breath and laid his head on the back of Dean's shoulder again. He coughed, hoping his brother's jacket would muffle the noise._

_Dean turned his head sideways and rubbed against Sam's cheek pressed against the crook of his neck._

_"Does your head hurt?" Dean asked, suddenly very quiet, like he wasn't laughing before._

_"No," Sam lied. "'M tired, though." He kept his eyes closed._

_"Hey." Dean gave a little bounce, his shoulder jarring Sam's chin._

_"Dean…" Sam whined. "Leave me alone. Tired…"_

_Another jig. "Sammy, don't fall asleep, you have to keep holding on. I can't carry you otherwise." Dean's hand around his foot jiggled it. His brother sounded all serious and grown-up. Like Dad. Sam missed Dad._

_"We're almost home, okay? You can nap later."_

_Sam begrudgingly opened his eyes again. "Do you think Dad will be back by now?" he asked hopefully._

_"Maybe," Dean said slowly. "But he did say a week. It's only been five days."_

_"Oh."_

_"Sammy?"_

_"Hm?" His head felt so funny and heavy._

_"Who's Eddie?"_

_"Edward," Sam murmured. "Ms. Farber said we have to use our real names." He lifted his head a little, looking at the neat little line where Dean's hair ended._

_"I didn't fall," Sam said tightly._

_"Of course not," Dean scoffed. "You're part monkey." He paused. "Was it that Eddie guy?"_

_Sam nodded his head against Dean's neck._

_Dean exhaled sharply. "Now why would he do that?"_

_"Because I told Tim he was dumb." Sam wiggled around, trying to find a comfortable place._

_"Stop moving," Dean warned. "Who's Tim? And why'd you call him dumb?"_

_"Because he was telling everyone you can stand over somebody's grave and catch a ghost to make a wish." Sam frowned. "He dared me to do it. I told him he didn't know what he was talking about."_

_"Yeah," Dean agreed. "That is dumb." He readjusted his hold on Sam. "But who's Tim? What does that have to do with that dickwad pushing you?"_

_Sam rolled his eyes. "He's Susan's twin brother."_

_"Oh, I get it." Dean nodded, the hair on the back of his head tickled Sam's nose. "Who's Susan?"_

_Grrr. Sam pressed his lips together and rolled his eyes again. Dean just didn't get it. "She's Mark's girlfriend," he said impatiently. Dean was usually quick at figuring out what Sam was saying._

_"Girlfriend?" Dean yelped. "You can't have girlfriends!"_

_"Why not?" Sam asked._

_"Because…that's too weird! You're in kindergarten!"_

_"Mark said Susan was too his girlfriend," Sam argued. "He's the only one Susan will let push her swing!" Dean got all bouncy again. Was he having hiccups?_

_"Okay." Dean sounded all squeaky for some reason. Sam scowled. What was so funny? "But what does Mark…" Dean giggled and swallowed hard. "So who's Mark then?"_

_"Eddie's best friend."_

_"Ah." Dean nodded, all serious like. "So Tim told Susan to tell Mark to tell Eddie to push you."_

_Sam scrunched his face. "Huh?"_

_"Isn't that why Eddie pushed you?" Dean slowed a little. He sounded confused. "Because Mark told him to?"_

_Sam frowned at Dean's head. What was he talking about? Wasn't Dean listening? "No," Sam replied slowly, not sure why Dean would think that. "It's because what Tim said was stupid."_

_Dean grunted. "I don't get it. Why would_ Eddie _push you?"_

_Sighing out loud, Sam kicked his feet impatiently in the air until Dean tightened his grip, silently telling him to cut it out. "Because Eddie was the one who told Tim about the stupid grave thing and I told Tim that what Eddie said was stupid."_

_Dean murmured a "Huh." He muttered something under his breath before adding, "You're doing this on purpose, aren't ya?"_

_"Doing what?"_

_"Never mind."_

_The two fell silent. Sam laid his head down on his brother's shoulder again. Sleepily, he watched the tall trees that lined the streets. He liked this town. They had trees everywhere. Even the house his dad had rented had a nice tall tree out front._

_Dean didn't seem to have noticed the trees or he just didn't care. He kept walking, only tripping once over an uneven part of the sidewalk._

_"Don't drop me," Sam said tiredly but didn't tighten his hold._

_"Well, duh," Dean muttered. He didn't trip again. In fact, Dean slowed down a little and Sam felt like he was being rocked. Sam yawned and he felt Dean wiggle his left ankle with a soft chuckle._

_"Hey, Sammy?"_

_"Yeah?" Sam replied sleepily._

_"Why didn't you tell me about Eddie?" Dean's voice was real low. Maybe he was tired, too._

_"I didn't think it was a big deal," Sam mumbled. His head lolled to the pointy part of Dean's shoulder. A shrug from Dean and Sam found his head going back until his cheek was squished against Dean's neck._

_"He pushed you off the bars," Dean said tightly._

_"He didn't push. He pulled me down from the bars," Sam corrected Dean._

_"Oh, why didn't you tell me? That makes a big difference," Dean said, deadpan. "Does Eddie do this pulling and pushing thing a lot?"_

_"Um…" Sam fidgeted. "Sometimes. It's no big deal, Dean. They never hurt." He felt so stupid, a big baby. It's not like the other times hurt either._

_Dean stopped in his tracks. He didn't put Sam down, but turned his head around. Sam could see part of Dean's nose._

_"It's_ not _a no big deal," Dean said. "Next time, you_ tell _me."_

_Sam bit his lower lip, then raised his chin. "Eddie doesn't scare me."_

_"I don't care. Next time, tell me," Dean gritted out. "You got that? Sammy?"_

_Sam nodded his head miserably. "Okay."_

_Dean fell silent once more, walking in that slow pace. Sam found himself getting sleepier and sleepier. "Dean?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"How was softball today? Did you hit a lot of balls?"_

_Dean didn't reply immediately. Sam could feel him working his jaw._

_"Teacher…uh…canceled it today."_

_"That sucks." Sam pouted. The past few days, they’d watched the grown-up version on TV. Sam remembered laughing uncontrollably at Dean sliding towards their home base; a ratty, old bear by the name of Wubbles in the middle of their living room floor._

_Dean shrugged. He paused as if he just remembered something. "Is that why you didn't tell me you were still sick?"_

_Now it was Sam's turn to shrug. "I didn't want to stay home," he admitted. "I had stuff to do."_

_"Oh, yeah, can’t miss your appointment with Eddie and those bars," Dean drawled._

_"Shut up," Sam muttered. He pressed his head closer to Dean's. He could see over his brother’s shoulder and watched the sidewalk going up and down. Sam swallowed._

_"Why didn't you tell me you were still feeling sick?" Dean said seriously. "The children's Tylenol didn't help?"_

_Sam shrugged. "I dunno," he replied, sleepily. Sam wasn't sure which question he was answering._

_"Uh huh," Dean said it like he didn’t believe him. He bumped his cheek against Sam's forehead. "You know," Dean said, "softball is kinda dumb."_

_Sam sat up straighter. He would have fallen back if Dean hadn’t hugged Sam's legs harder. "What are you talking about?" Sam blurted out, confused. "You were talking about it all week!"_

_"Nah, all that running around, hitting that stupid ball, sliding down in the dirt." Dean pretended to shudder. "I don't know, Sammy." He clicked his tongue loudly. "Doesn't sound all that fun."_

_"But…but…" Sam sputtered. He didn't get it. Confused, he fell silent._

_"But what?" Dean said. He turned around and looked down at Sam's head perched on his shoulder._

_Sam clamped his mouth shut._

_Dean laughed knowingly and continued walking. "You're such a doofus."_

_"You're the doofus," Sam sniffed._

_"Brat."_

_"Jerk."_

_Dean laughed again and gave Sam a little bounce. He spun them around with a big whoop. Sam giggled, his arms going tighter around Dean's neck._

_"Hey, knock it off!" Dean was still laughing. "You're squeezing all the air out of me. My head is gonna pop!"_

_"Ha! That can't happen!" Sam loosened his grip anyway. The two fell into a comfortable silence. Sam was content to hold onto Dean, listening to his brother's steady breathing. His eyes began to droop._

_"Almost there," Dean said._

_Sam blinked rapidly. "Okay." He yawned._

_"Sammy?"_

_"Hm?"_

_"Next time, tell me if you're feeling sick." Dean gave Sammy another bounce, then held him tighter. "No matter what, okay?"_

_Sam nodded._

_"I mean it," Dean warned him. "Promise me."_

_"I promise," Sam slurred. "Cross my heart and hope to—"_

_"Just promise," Dean said sharply. "Don't cross your heart!"_

_Sam's brow furrowed. Why was Dean mad? All the kids said it in his class when they really wanted to promise._

_"Promise," Dean repeated. "Sammy, I'm not kidding."_

_No, Dean didn't sound like he was. "I promise," he said quietly into Dean's ear._

_Dean grunted, apparently satisfied._

_"Dean?"_

_"What?"_

_"Are you…mad at me?"_

_Dean slowed down._

_"Dean?" Sam's voice quavered._

_"No." Dean shook his head. He squeezed the foot he was holding. "I'm not mad."_

_"Good." Sam smiled, relieved._

_Another bounce. Sam giggled, and they fell silent again._

_But…_

_"Dean?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"What's a dickwad?"  
_

His own steady breathing woke him. Sam blearily looked up at the ceiling. The same spackle stared back dispassionately. He didn't know if he was relieved or feeling guilty that he could no longer smell the smoke so vividly everywhere he went. 

Sam closed his eyes briefly. He still felt the burn behind his shut lids. He still felt hot, but his neck no longer felt as stiff. He grimaced, a phantom recollection of feeling his arms and legs cramping, trembling.

Looking at the ceiling was suddenly too painful so he turned away, only to find an obstacle blocking his left view. It was then he realized it wasn't his own breathing that woke him.

Warm denim rubbed against his cheek. Sam's eyes trailed upward to find Dean sitting next to him, legs outstretched, head tilted back, mouth partially open in a silent snore. 

Sam felt a pang of guilt when his eyes trailed down to a full, sweating ice bucket balanced against Dean's thigh. A dark stain was growing underneath the bucket. He winced. Dean wasn't going to be happy when he woke up to ice-dampened jeans. Sam had vague memories: of Dean complaining all the way back to the motel from the lake about the icy, clammy sensation; of his arm hanging over a shoulder, wet flannel against his nose; of being shoved through the motel door, Dean practically demanding he strip; of dizzily watching Dean yank and arm-wrestle the sodden jacket off while hopping madly on one foot to peel off his jeans. Sam could have sworn he’d heard Dean yelp as he tripped over Sam's long legs when one pant leg wouldn't let go of his ankle. Judging from the words that followed, Sam would have thought a wolverine had pissed Dean off, not his jeans as he kicked them halfway across the room before stomping towards the shower.

As if he was just subconsciously waiting for Sam to wake up, Dean stirred, his eyes cracking open. Immediately, they drifted down to his right and widened when he saw Sam looking back at him, aware. The relief that lightened Dean's eyes took Sam aback, but it was gone as fast as it came.

"About damn time, Sleeping Beauty." Dean yawned. He rocked his head left and right to stretch the cricks out. 

Sam looked at him wearily. He considered replying back, but was still trying to reconcile Dean's moving mouth with the words he'd heard. It was like his brain was running in slow motion. 

Dean sat up straighter and looked down at Sam with a frown. He reached over and peeled the lukewarm towel from Sam's forehead. Sam blinked; he hadn’t even realized it was there. Dean rested his hand over his forehead, and then it slid down to briefly palm his jaw before withdrawing. "Damn it," he muttered darkly. He slipped his hand behind Sam's neck and pulled out a towel from back there and then another—where did those come from? 

Sam watched—it felt like that was all he could manage to do—as his brother packed more ice into the makeshift compresses. Sam automatically hissed when Dean tucked them behind his knees, his neck, and under his arms.

"It'll feel better in a sec." Dean didn't wait for a reply. He deposited the bucket on the nightstand between the beds, and went into the bathroom, but didn't shut the door.

Dean was right. Already, Sam could feel the ice losing its sharp chill and becoming a welcome contrast to his warm, dry skin. He lay there, squinting at the daylight entering through their window despite Dean having pulled the flimsy curtains shut, and pinned them together with a paperclip. Sam listened to the water splashing in the bathroom, the short squeak when the faucet was shut. What day was it? He disliked the fact that each time he woke up, he wasn't sure if it was the same day or the next. It was exhausting to spend the first waking minutes trying to figure out if it was day or night.

A cup materialized before him. Sam raised his heavy head and looked as Dean, smelling faintly of toothpaste and soap, chin dripping water, silently dropped two white pills—and added a new blue one—into Sam’s palm.

"You have to keep taking these," Dean said shortly. 

Sam grimaced as he dry swallowed them, wondering about the additional one, but he trusted it was probably necessary if even Dean was pushing them. His older brother had a wary view of pharmaceuticals. Understandable, considering most would knock them out, leaving them exposed to the darkness.

The drawn curtains didn't give Sam any clue of how much time had passed. "What's today?" Sam rasped. He couldn't see Dean's expression as his brother was folding up some towels for compresses later.

"Sunday," Dean said.

Sunday? His heart thudded against his ribcage painfully. Sam closed his eyes briefly. Shit. Apparently, Dean never got to go to Auburn, as he'd wanted. Thanks to him, Dean was stuck in yet another crappy room on _this_ day. Sam knew that Dean, like their father, was feeling a little claustrophobic and this voluntary prison must be gnawing at Dean. He blurted out before he could stop himself. "Today's—"

"What?" Dean asked coldly, his jaw clenched. He narrowed his eyes at Sam, daring him to say more.

Sam silently berated himself. "Nothing."

Dean grunted and went back to folding.

Sam felt like a spectator, watching Dean move around the room aimlessly, randomly picking up paper bags—were those the same ones or new ones?—or standing in front of the tray with the coffee maker and its scant complimentary coffee. For some reason, watching Dean walking with no particular goal in mind—even in a bar Sam found Dean's wandering was more like a predator surveying his territory—was even more disturbing than the fact that breathing was still painful and a dull ache resided in his chest.

After watching his brother do yet another circuit from table to coffeepot, Sam cleared his throat. "That bad, huh?" he tried to joke.

Dean stopped and turned around to look at Sam over his shoulder, offering him a disbelieving, "What, are you fucking kidding me?" before he continued back to the coffee maker. His back was to Sam as he jerkily tore a packet of something open, dumped the contents into a Styrofoam cup, then poured hot water into it. Dean capped it and gave it shake like it was a martini, hissing when some of the water escaped and scalded him.

Sam couldn't stand the silence any more. "Dean…"

"Sam. Don't," Dean warned tightly and walked over to him. "Careful, it's hot." Dean placed it carefully in Sam's hand then took away the compresses before the ice could melt on Sam’s clothes. He tossed them into the ice bucket.

Sam cautiously opened the lid and discovered it wasn't coffee but one of the instant soup packs they'd picked up on their last gas stop. He gave it a sniff—it was the chicken one—and gingerly took a sip. He looked up at Dean, who stood over him with an unreadable expression. "Dean—"

"Next time," Dean hissed with barely reined in anger, "when I tell you to stay back, you better damn well _stay back_ or I'm locking you in the fucking trunk!" He pivoted around and sat on his bed, grabbing the laptop.

Sam shut his open mouth with a snap. Dean turned on the computer, the lit screen highlighting stony features that signaled the conversation was over before it could begin. 

Tired, Sam sat there, sipping the soup, trying really hard not to breathe too loudly. His chest still felt like a vise squeezing tight with each breath. He could hear the angry tapping of keys to his left. He glanced down as the bandage on his inner elbow caught his eye. Puzzled, Sam lifted his left arm to get a better look. Odd, that wasn't there before. He raised his eyes and saw Dean was watching him.

"IV," Dean said flatly. "From last night."

"IV," Sam repeated stupidly.

"When you were in the ER," Dean added. The _again_ was left unspoken.

"Oh," Sam said uselessly. He idly rubbed the annoying ache in his sternum.

"You were having trouble breathing so they drew some fluid out of your lungs," Dean continued in a low voice.

Astonished, Sam pulled his shirt up. Sure enough, he could see tiny needle marks skimming his rib cage. Eyes wide, Sam looked at Dean.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean gritted out, "you've been loads of fun."

"I don't remember any of this," Sam murmured, at a loss for what to say.

"Lucky you," Dean muttered. He ignored Sam as he went back to typing, occasionally glancing at the scraps of paper he rummaged out of his journal.

Sam slumped back against the pillows, absently finishing the soup. He considered Dean over his cup. His brother was surprisingly organized when it came to his journal. He didn't look up as he turned to the front flap and spread out the clipped articles on the bed.

The journal was already a third full from what Sam could see, and he wondered how much of it was from when Dean was hunting solo. They took turns writing down their hunts in Dad's journal, but rarely did Sam see Dean pull out his. Yet the pages kept filling regardless.

Sam watched as Dean checked out a long article Sam had photocopied. He could see his brother making two piles, and he wondered at their significance. Dean was pointedly ignoring him, and Sam was at a loss. Dean was clearly pissed off they were still here thanks to Sam.

Trying to figure out what to say, Sam glanced back over at Dean, and caught a glimpse of faded blue paper, covered in some sort of plastic, and tucked snugly in the front flap. Frowning, he studied it. He flushed, this time not because of the fever. "I can't believe you kept that thing," he murmured.

"What?" Dean looked up, his eyes narrowing.

Abashed, Sam was about to say something, but a cough came out instead. He grimaced and massaged his sternum.

"Still hurts?"

He looked up to find Dean's expression had softened. Sam sighed and glumly nodded.

Dean pursed his lips as if debating whether he was still pissed or not. He swung his feet around and rose from the bed. "I got an idea," he said and disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later, Dean showed up grasping a small blue container. "Pull up your shirt."

Sam gaped. "What?" he managed.

Dean cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Vapor Rub, you perv. Now pull your shirt up."

Oh. Sam sheepishly obliged, feeling a little silly lying there in bed. He looked apprehensively at his brother as he came closer.

Dean gingerly sat by Sam's head, grabbing the thermometer by the nightstand, and checked his temperature again.

"How is it?" Sam watched a myriad of emotions play across Dean's face as he looked at thermometer.

"A hundred and one," Dean muttered, definitely not looking happy.

Sam kept his eyes on his brother and said slowly, "Not too bad. We could check out tomorrow and head for Auburn." Dean's mouth pressed thin. "We could probably get there by dinnertime."

"Doesn't matter anymore," Dean muttered, his tone making Sam flinch. "Auburn can wait now."

"But—" Sam stopped as Dean tightened his fist around the blue container.

"Sam," Dean gritted out, "I took you to the ER because you started _seizing_." He opened the bottle and dug his fingers inside. "When I said we'd wait to be sure, I meant it. We'll _wait_." He slid his eyes over. "Okay?"

Sam sighed. "Okay." He jumped when Dean pressed down on his chest.

"Hold still," Dean ordered, annoyed.

Sam obeyed and stared at the ceiling. The strong scent of menthol made his nose twitch, but he didn't say anything. 

Dean seemed to know what he was doing; pressing down briefly and spreading the vapor rub across his chest.

"Better?" Dean asked quietly after a few minutes, moving his hand in deep circles, letting the camphor and menthol cream spread.

Sam took a deep breath, wincing at the small cough before blinking in amazement. "Actually, yeah."

"Well don't look so surprised," Dean snorted. "I'm not just pretty to look at, you know."

Sam laughed, glad to hear Dean's attempt at levity. "Not to mention delusional."

"Everyone's a critic." Dean stopped when Sam screwed up his face and coughed harshly. He braced Sam, one hand pressing down on his shoulder, the other still applying the cream. He waited until it stopped, leaving Sam gasping, exhausted.

"I hate this," Sam blurted out. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye.

"You'll feel better after this," Dean assured, not stopping. He gave Sam's shoulder a brief squeeze before letting go.

Sam lay there, feeling the menthol slowly loosening muscles that felt painfully stretched across his chest. His eyes drooped and flew open again. He took a deep breath, heartened it didn't hurt as much anymore. "Where did you learn to do that?" he asked drowsily.

There was a hesitation in Dean's motions, then he started back up again. Sam felt his eyelids growing heavy.

"Mom used to do this," Dean said after a few minutes. He pulled his hands away and helped Sam straighten out his shirt. He patted Sam on the chest, signaling he was done. "I think it was before you were born."

Sam held his tongue, sensing Dean was in a rare mood to talk.

"She used to stay in my room, rubbing in this stuff when I was sick." Dean sounded distant. He shook his head and grabbed the ice bucket. "Think she sang, too."

"Really?" Sam was starved for anything about his mother. Dad rarely spoke of her and only in rare moments did Dean tell Sam about when he was young, pointing out her face in the photos they'd managed to save. "Do you remember what she sang?"

Dean shook his head regretfully. "Don't quite remember." Dean paused, then added, "Dad would know. You should ask him."

_But will he answer._ Sam almost asked, but didn't. He blinked owlishly at Dean as his brother placed a cool towel over his forehead. Sam could smell the vapor rub still clinging to Dean's fingers.

A pang twisted Sam's gut. His mother. He only knew her and loved her through what Dean told him. The recollections were rarely offered. But the older they got, the more tight-lipped Dean became.

"I wish I knew her," Sam whispered wistfully. He froze. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. He glanced over at Dean with apprehension.

Dean didn't turn around. 

"Sorry," Sam fumbled, wishing Dean would just turn around and smother him with a pillow and get it over with. "Must be the fever talking, man," he joked weakly.

Dean abruptly stood up. "You look better so I'm gonna take a shower." He grabbed his duffel from the floor, jerkily going through it to find a change of clothes. He stalked over to the bathroom where he paused. He hung there for a moment. "Wish you knew Mom, too, Sam." 

"Dean—" Sam called out, but the bathroom door shut. A few long minutes later, Sam heard the shower turn on.

He tried to wait for Dean to be done, but the soft patter of water quickly lulled him back to sleep.

 

 

_Sam stared at the dark he'd created by burrowing under his blanket. He could hear the rain outside. He could hear Dean coughing from the cold he'd had all week. Sam curled tighter, fingering the faded green jammies Dean had worn long ago._

_Dad was late._

_Dad was_ never _late._

_Or if he was, he called. He always called._

_Sam huddled under the covers, listening to his brother roll over and cough again. He crawled out of his bed and went over to Dean's. He folded his hands together on the edge and rested his chin on them._ _"Dean?" he whispered fearfully, looking at his brother’s back. Dean coughed again and Sam covered his mouth with both hands and waited to see if Dean wakes._

_Dean was still sick, having stayed home the last few days. He had bought a bunch of the blue throat candies from the penny barrel at the corner store. They always made his tongue blue. Dean explained they helped him not cough so much. So every time Dean went to pick up Sam after school, Sam would always watch for Dean's tongue. On Monday, it was really blue. Today, Dean picked him up with only a little blue stripe down his tongue._

_Sam's lower lip quivered. He really, really,_ really _wanted Dean to wake up. Dean would know why Dad was late. He’d told Sam Dad was probably still hunting and would be back soon._

_But that was two days ago._

_And Dean was still sick._

_And Dad hadn't called._

_Sam bit his lower lip as Dean coughed again. At least it wasn't as bad as on Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday. It had been really loud, and sounded all wet and yucky those days. It sounded like it hurt. Too bad Dad wasn't here. He could have bought more of that funny purple stuff he gave them when they got sick. But Dean said there was no more; he’d given Sam the last of it after he got sick playing in the rain._

_But they still had the funny blue candy._

_Peering over, making sure Dean was still sleeping, Sam put on his slippers—the floor was so cold!—and padded out carefully to the dark kitchenette._

_Finding the candy was easy. He knew Dean put them in the ‘frigerator because he said they tasted better cold. Sam tried a few and made a face. Gross. How could Dean eat this stuff every day? Tasted like their toothpaste. He looked up thoughtfully at the shelf above the sink. When he was sick, Dean always gave him a glass of juice. He said it helped you get better faster._

_Sam tilted his head and considered the tall juice glass up top. Maybe with a_ lot _of juice, Dean would get better really fast. Sam dragged the chair in front of the sink and climbed up. Wobbling, he stretched out, feet tiptoeing. He grinned; his fingers could touch the glass. Just a little more…_

_Sam's slipper skidded across the seat just as he wrapped his hand around the glass._

_Crash!_

_Sam didn't even have time to cry out. He fell, still clutching the glass. His butt hit flat on the floor, and his chin banged the chair. Hard._

_Sam stared up at the shelf from down on the floor. His chin throbbed and his hand really hurt. His eyes started to well up._

_"Sammy?"_

_Sam started at the sleep-roughened voice and turned his head._

_Dean sleepily rubbed his eye with his fist, frowning at him. "What are you doing up? What are you doing on the floor?"_

_He gulped, trying not to cry, but the tears spilled over anyway._

_Dean bent down, rested his hands on his knees, and peered at him. He brushed a finger across Sam's cheek, wiping away the moisture. He looked over at the upturned chair, the slipper on the table and Sam on the floor. "Did you fall?"_

_Sam nodded and hiccupped. "I wanted to get you the coughing candy so you'd feel better." Another hiccup._

_Dean nodded seriously, looking a little funny doing that with blonde hair sticking up all over the place from the bed. "Where did you hurt yourself?" he asked gently. He stepped closer to help Sam up and heard a crunch under his feet. Dean looked down to the floor sharply._

_Suddenly, light flooded the kitchen and Sam scrunched up his face at the sudden brightness._

_"Let me see," Dean demanded. He grabbed Sam's hands and peered at the right closely. His frown got bigger as he probed Sam’s palm with a finger._

_"Ow," Sam whined and tried to pull away._

_"Don't move!" Dean went behind Sam and picked him up under his arms. "Don't put your feet down," Dean said, his voice made stern and raspy like Dad's by all the coughing he'd done. He swung Sam away from the spot and set him down away from the mess. Now with the light on, Sam could see the broken glass and the spots of blood. He gulped as Dean hurried him away, both hands on his shoulders, pushing him into the bathroom. He deposited Sam on top of the toilet._

_The first aid kit was under the sink. With sure hands, Dean sat down on the edge of the tub, picked out what he needed and piled it on his lap. Dean pulled Sam's right hand under the faucet. Warm water ran over his palm and Sam flinched._

_"This is going to hurt," Dean warned, "so hold still, all right?"_

_Sam nodded, but he whimpered as his brother slowly picked out the glass. Every so often Dean had to stop and turn his head away from Sam to cough. It sounded scrapey and raw. "You're still sick?" Sam asked, worried._

_Dean shook his head. "Nope, not me." He held tightly to Sam's wrist as he grabbed the iodine, giving Sam an apologetic shrug before he started dabbing._

_"Are, too," Sam insisted._

_"Not even," Dean croaked, his voice full of gravel as he gripped Sam's wrist tightly, giving Sam no chance to pull away. "Almost done," Dean murmured. "You're okay. It's not that bad."_

_Sam sniffled, watching Dean very carefully wrap the cut. Dean's eyes were all puffy and Sam's throat hurt just listening to him. "Dad's late," he whispered._

_Dean paused from tucking in the gauze ends. "He'll be back soon."_

_Sam watched his brother carefully tie the ends in a bow. He flinched when Dean coughed again. "What if he doesn't?"_

_Dean frowned at him. "He'll be here, Sam." His brother tilted his head a little and considered him. "What's the matter?"_

_Sam looked up at his brother. What if Dean got sick, really,_ really _sick? "Dean."_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Are we…orphans?" he asked tentatively._

_Dean flinched like he was slapped. "Where did you get that crazy idea?"_

_"Fred in my class. He doesn't have a mom and dad—"_

_"We have a dad!" Dean said it sharply. He turned away from Sam and started throwing things back into the first aid kit._

_"But Dad's not here," Sam said in a small voice._

_"It's only been two days!" Dean sounded really mad._

_"Fred's sister had to go to different places to live with strangers because their mom and dad weren't there." Sam clutched Dean's sleeve tight. Dean wouldn't look at him. Sam tugged at the sleeve, trying to get his attention. "I don't want to go somewhere else," Sam said tearfully. "And I don't want you to go either."_

_Dean coughed once more, stared at the sink for a very long time before he gave a little sigh. He turned back around and pulled Sam onto his lap. He patted Sam's back awkwardly as Sam clung to his t-shirt and cried quietly. "We're not orphans," he rasped. "Dad will be back soon, you'll see."_

_Sam pressed his face tighter against Dean's shirt. Dad wasn't here and Dean was still sick. He shivered, fearing he'd hear someone knocking on the door to take him far away like Fred's sister._

_"No one's taking anyone away, Sammy." Dean rested his chin on top of his head. "We got someone to take care of us."_

_Sam sniffed and looked up._

_"Me, stupid." Dean grinned and flicked Sam's nose._

_Sam pressed his ear against his brother's chest, listening for his heartbeat. "But you're sick. What if they make you?"_

_"Told you, I'm not sick." Dean's thin voice sounded deeper against his ear._

_"You are, too," Sam insisted wetly._

_"Nope. Not me. Picture of health."_

_"De-ean."_

_Dean sighed against Sam's hair, his arms wrapping tight around Sam. "They won't ever take you away because I can take care of you. You'll never have to go anywhere without me. You can't get rid of me. You and me, we're like glue. Super duper Winchester glue."_

_Sam wiped his nose with his hand. "Does that mean you would be my mom?" Of course Dean couldn't be his dad because Dad was already Dad._

_Dean looked startled and pulled away from Sam. "No," he said quietly. "No one else could be mom. Mom's mom." Then he grinned weakly. "Besides, I don't do aprons."_

_Dean nudged Sam to get up and led him back to the bedroom. He helped Sam up to bed and sat down on the edge. He patted Sam on the knee, telling him all sorts of road trip stories about the time he conned a liquor store owner in Millstop out of eighteen packs of gum, how he once scored so high on Asteroids that he broke the machine in a 7-11 in Bennington, how he once found two hundred four leaf clovers by a rest stop in Ohio, how he once fed Sammy so much grape jelly as a baby that he pooped purple for a week…how he…how he…. The steady beat was pulling Sam's eyes shut. He sensed Dean getting up and his eyes flew open again in a panic._

_"Just have to clean up the kitchen," Dean assured him._

_Sam grabbed the hem of his shirt. He shuffled himself closer until he bumped into Dean's hip. "Can't let go. I'm super glued."_

_"Sammy…" Dean sighed but stayed where he was. He coughed into his fist and settled in on Sam's bed._

_The bed shook a little every time Dean coughed, but Sam didn't mind. He could hear Dean breathe out softly, absently running his fingers through Sam’s hair. Dean once told him Mom had done that sometimes. It felt kinda nice. And it was making Sam sleepy._

_Moments later, though, Dean stopped. Sam stiffened as he heard their doorknob rattle and big heavy footsteps. Sam shrank under the covers. They're here!_

_Dean grabbed the shotgun Dad left him. He struggled with the heavy gun, but soon it steadied when he pointed it at the hallway. The footsteps were getting louder._

_"Dean…" Sam whimpered._

_"Nobody's taking you away, Sammy," Dean said softly, never taking his eyes off their doorway._

_Sam squeezed his eyes really tight and listened as they got closer and closer. He thought he could hear his heart going thud-thud like the footsteps_

_Then, the footsteps stopped._

_"At ease, little man."_

_Dean lowered the gun. "Dad," he said. Sam could hear the relief in his voice._

_"How're my boys doing?"_

_"You're late."_

_Sam cringed under the covers. Dean sounded like their dad when he was annoyed about something._

_Dad didn't sound mad, though. He felt Dad pat him through the covers. "Tracking them got hard. The pack split up. Me and Rick had to do the same."_

_"Do you need me to get the kit?" Dean asked worriedly._

_"No. I'm fine." Sam heard Dad picking up the shotgun and checking the barrels. "Thing's loaded?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"Good work, son." Sam could hear the grin. Then the voice changed, concerned. "Sound a little hoarse there, Dean. Cold?"_

_Sam heard the shrug in Dean's reply, but no way did he lie to Dad. "A little. I'm almost better now."_

_"I'll pick up some more cough syrup tomorrow."_

_"Great." Dean didn't sound thrilled._

_"I'm going to grab a shower and head to bed. Why don't you go get some rest?"_

_"Dad? Sam waited all night for you to come back."_

_His dad sighed tiredly. "Son, it's late. I'm beat and Sammy's asleep. I'll see him tomorrow morning."_

_"He waited all night, Dad._ Both _nights." Dean pulled the covers down. "And he's not asleep, right, Sammy?"_

_Busted. Sam cracked one eye open. He could never fool them pretending to sleep. But his dad did sound tired and Sam would see him in the morning…_

_"And what are_ you _still doing up?" Dad said softly. He reached down and pulled Sam up into his arms. Sam looked up and saw his dad smiling faintly at him, Dean from behind Dad giving him a smug, "See? I told you so."_

_"You're back!" Sam yawned, resting his head on his dad's shoulder. He smelled funny—like sweat and the wet dog next door. But he wrapped his arms around his neck and yawned again. He didn't care if Dean teased him about being right. He was just glad Dean was. "Did you get the wolf people?"_

_"Werewolves," Dean corrected. He coughed again._

_"I don't know where the wolves are," Sam muttered. He blinked sleepily down to Dean._

_Dad laughed. Sam could feel his chest rumbling, his jaw a little scratchy when he turned his head to look at Sam's right hand._

_"What happened?" Dad's voice suddenly got all serious._

_"A little accident with a glass." Dean squirmed. "I was sleeping and didn't know," he apologized._

_Dad rubbed his thumb lightly across Sam's hand. He pursed his lips as he peeked under the gauze, then frowned._

_"It wasn't his fault," Sam protested. "I just wanted to get him juice."_

_"Sam…" Dean warned._

_"Don't be mad." Sam paused. "Dean's_ sick _," he pointed out in case Dad didn't notice._

_"Did you make sure you got all the glass out?" Dad asked, ignoring Sam._

_Dean nodded. "There wasn't a lot."_

_Sam laid his head back down. "It wasn't his fault, Dad. Dean's sick." Sam stuck out his lower lip and wrinkled his nose. Dad did smell kinda funny, but he didn't want to be put back to bed yet. Sam tightened his arms around his neck._

_"Your brother should have made sure you didn't go running off on your own."_

_"But Dad, Dean's_ sick _." Sam wiggled unhappily in his dad's arms._

_"Sam," Dean spoke up. "It's okay."_

_Dad sighed and rubbed a hand down Sam's back. "Just don't let it happen again, son."_

_Sam wasn't sure who Dad was talking to, but he nodded anyway. His eyes felt droopy. He yawned and decided Dad's shoulder was a good pillow._

_"I'm sorry, sir."_

_Dad sighed again. "I know you are, son. Don't worry about the glass. I'll pick it up later."_

_"I could—"_

_"No, Sammy's right. You're still sick." Sam felt himself being lowered back into bed, his arms gently pried loose from his dad's neck. He frowned and reached out his arms but Dad just tucked them under the blankets. "Just get back into bed. We'll talk in the morning."_

_"Okay," Dean said reluctantly. "‘Night, Dad."_

_"‘Night, son." Dad paused. "Dean?"_

_"Yeah, Dad?"_

_"Why is your brother's tongue blue?"  
_

It felt disturbingly like déjà vu, waking up once again to crappy yellow walls, having no clue how much time had passed.

It did feel different this time, though. He no longer felt hot, his head felt clearer. He still had a headache, but it was the kind from sleeping too long. And all the heavy weight was gone from his chest,. He could breathe again. He felt worn, tired, and achy, but it was still better than before. 

Sam blinked blearily at the wall and turned to his left. Dean was once again asleep, this time on top of his bed, which was made and probably had been for a while. 

"Sorry," Sam whispered to the weary face. The five o'clock shadow made Dean look older. 

Dean said nothing, just grunted in his sleep and rolled his head away from Sam. The mighty hunter was comically sprawled on top of his bed; arms flung out like a starfish, still dressed in the same shirt Sam remembered him wearing the first time he woke up. 

His throat tightened as he cautiously swung his legs around until he was sitting on the bed, facing Dean. He slowly blinked his eyes and was relieved to find the room was content to stay motionless. Sam got up, wobbling a little, his legs trying to stay steady despite being horizontal for so long. It took a few false starts before he found his footing.

The bathroom was just ahead, but it felt forever before he lurched over and shut the door behind him. __

__\----- __

__It was a surprise when Sam came out and found Dean still asleep, in the exact position he'd left him. Usually, the minute Sam put his foot onto the carpet, Dean was up, without the wicked looking hunting knife he tucked under the pillow, Although once, in Alabama, after a bad, _bad_ hunt with a massuima illusion demon, it'd taken Dean a full second of staring at Sam before he'd pulled the knife away from his throat.

Sam stood at the foot of his bed, dropped his dirty clothes on the mattress, and stretched his long arms above his head. It was amazing how good a shower could feel after being in bed for so long. He stood there, unsure as he noticed the clock read eight-fourteen. Sam winced. Guess that meant another hard night for Dean.

Dressing slowly, he observed the dark smudges under his brother's eyes despite his slumber. And Dean desperately needed a shave.

Wake him or not? Sam was weighing the choices as he slipped on his sneakers and quietly padded over to his brother's bed.

Dean gave a soft snore, and then rolled over to his left. Sam could have sworn he heard Dean mumble something about it being his turn and a feather. Sam was _so_ not going to ask. He chewed on his lip, absently rubbing his still-sore chest, biting back a cough so he wouldn't wake his brother. He smiled to himself, an idea slowly forming in his head when he saw Dean's journal on the bed, laying on top of the laptop, Dean’s place marked by a pen tucked inside. 

He'd let Dean sleep; He'd be back before his brother woke. Sam grabbed the room key and slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind him. __

__\----- __

__Sam muttered hotly under his breath as he wrestled to open the door without spilling his bags. The diner nearby was unusually slow with the locals and staff gossiping about the newly thawed lake. It'd taken so long, Sam had been tempted to go into the kitchen and make his own breakfast. And to his dismay, the motel's gift shop was handled by the same person who checked them in; a man currently glued to the local news about the many bodies being pulled out of lake.

He sighed, relieved when the motel key didn't stick and the door complacently opened with a nudge of his foot. Despite all the obstacles, he’d gotten everything accomplished in just little over an hour. He entered the room—

—and froze.

Apparently, he’d been gone long enough for Dean to have noticed. His brother was hopping around on one foot, trying to put his last boot on while jerkily thrusting an arm through the sleeve of his jacket. Dean stilled at the creak of the door shutting, and looked over his shoulder, the rest of his body following when he saw who it was.

"Morning," Sam rasped weakly at the red face.

Suddenly, Dean was in front of him, grabbing Sam's shoulders and pushing him down onto a nearby chair. 

"Where the _hell_ did you go?"

Not good, not good at all. Sam wondered if pointing out that it would be a shame to kill him after all those days of taking care of him would grant him some leniency. "Went out," Sam tried.

" _Out_?" Dean acted like Constance Welch was driving his baby again.

Okay, maybe not.

Sam frowned. Dean was acting like Sam’d just run out delirious into the street. "Calm down. I was feeling better and I was getting kinda hungry. Thought I'd get us some food."

Dean walked back and forth in front of Sam, yanking his jacket off and throwing it down on his bed.

"Dean, what is your problem, man?"

Dean stormed over to Sam. "My problem is after nights of you practically roasting yourself inside out, I wake up to find _your_ clothes on the bed, and my loopy Jacques Cousteau of a brother _gone_!"

Sam winced. Obviously, Dean _was_ thinking that.

"Where the hell did you go?"

Sam lifted the bags up as a peace offering. "Like I said, I was hungry. Went and got us breakfast."

Dean looked at the bags suspiciously. "You were hungry," he repeated slowly.

Heaving a sigh, Sam resisted rolling his eyes. "I wasn't about to have you feed me those again." He nodded towards the two covered cups still sitting on the table.

"Too bad. I think I remember still having your bib somewhere."

"Dean…" Sam growled, but abruptly he coughed. Damn, he had a feeling that wasn't going away any time soon. He looked up to reassure Dean, only to meet up with Dean's hand and the ear thermometer instead. He scowled but sat quietly as Dean checked.

"Well?" Sam glared at him, exasperated. "I'm telling you, I feel a lot better now."

Dean stared at the reading for a long time. Then checked Sam's other ear.

"Dean?" Sam asked worriedly. "Seriously, I do feel a lot better now."

"Yeah, your temp is almost normal." Then Dean smacked the back of Sam's head. "Though obviously there's brain damage. You were hungry?"

"Yes. Geez. Ow!" Though truthfully Dean had barely tapped him.

"And you couldn't have left a note?"

"I did." Sam said, reaching up. "I stuck a post-it right on your chest."

Dean held out both arms wide and looked pointedly down at his t-shirt. "And?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't know. It must have fallen off." He glanced around and spotted the yellow square. "There it is on the floor."

"Small favors. You're trying to drive me freakin’ insane, that's what this is," Dean muttered under his breath. He shook his head in disgust and began rummaging around the bags. "Dude, you'd better not have forgotten the bacon. No deathbed rising, junk food, death march is worth it unless you got bacon." He found what he was looking for, gave a small triumphant sound, and fished the bacon out without bothering to pull the container out the bag.

"You're welcome," Sam muttered. He heard the crunching as Dean burrowed in the bag, looking for more, conveniently hiding his face and the sheer look of relief that had been there for the briefest of moments as Sam had walked through the door. __

__\----- __

__Since Sam got his brother coffee, toast, sausage, an enormous stack of pancakes, _and_ bacon—but no sunnyside up eggs; he drew the line at listening to his brother noisily slurping up the runny yolks—he got the feeling he was conditionally forgiven. 

Sam cleared his throat, inwardly wincing at the sandpaper feel and not about to admit how much energy just walking to the street corner and back had sucked out of him. He felt like he could crawl right back into bed and darn it, he'd just gotten up. "So…about Auburn…"

"Figured we give it a day or two more." Dean shrugged as he wiped the maple syrup off his plate with a piece of toast. "Get a good night’s sleep or two before we head out. Make sure you're healed up."

Healed up. That reminded Sam. He'd been sick. But Dean had been the one sporting the bandages from the lake. A pang of remorse twisted in his gut. Sam picked at his home fries, keeping his eyes down. "Dean, I'm—"

"Sam, it's okay. You don't need to apologize," Dean said quietly. He sat there, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his coffee, but not drinking it.

"I wasn't going to." 

Dean looked up sharply.

Sam took a deep breath. "Look, I'm not going to apologize for diving in. You were in trouble and if the same thing happens,"—he hoped not—"I'll do it again."

Dean set his mouth, clearly not happy.

"But I am sorry." Sam lowered his voice. "You could have been in Auburn playing _Rambo_ to a ghoul."

The mouth twitched at the reference to _Rambo_. "It's all right, Sam," Dean responded quietly. 

"No, I know how important it was for you not to be cooped up on… _that_ day." Sam looked steadily at his brother.

Dean shook his head. He set down the coffee and rose, grabbing his duffel from the floor and tossing it onto the bed. He rummaged around in it for clean clothes.

"Dean?" Sam called out worriedly.

"Wasn't that important to me," Dean said, offering nothing else as he pulled out a black tee and gave it a cautious sniff.

Confused, Sam could only watch as his brother rifled around for some clean socks.

"Dean, I don't get it." 

Dean didn't look at him as he zipped up his bag. "I just decided making Auburn wasn’t that big a deal."

"Huh? First you were all hot for Auburn. Now you don't care?" Sam wasn't really talking about Auburn. For as long as he could remember, as far back as memories went, their Dad, and then Dean, too, had to get out on the second Sunday of May. Get out and not be anywhere and pretend it all didn't mean anything. That there was nothing to think about and no one to miss. Just be nowhere. This time nowhere was supposed to have been Auburn. What had changed?

As if answering his thoughts, Dean growled, "You scared the hell out of me, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened. Dean still wouldn't look up, but he tossed over one of Sam's pill bottles to him. Sam caught them against his chest. Time for his meds again. Dean turned around and headed for the bathroom. He stopped at Sam's soft call. “Dean.”

"Do that again," Dean said hoarsely, "and I will so kick your ass." And he shut the door.

\----- __

__Despite his claims of recovery, Sam was more than exhausted by the short trip. Sitting there listening to the shower, he found he was just about to fall face first into his half-eaten pancakes. Sam groaned. He ignored the table—knowing Dean, he'd probably be willing to pick at the cold pancake remains—and grabbed the bag he’d kept hidden with the food. Keeping one ear out for Dean, Sam fished out what he’d bought at the gift shop and tucked it into Dean’s duffel. Mission accomplished, he shuffled back to his bed. The rumpled covers looked inviting. Sam breathed out slowly as he sank back into the mattress. He'd just rest for a minute and wait for his brother to finish.

Sam roused briefly at the sound of Dean fumbling around the containers, picking out the remains of the bacon Sam didn't eat. Under the warmth of the blankets, Sam was finding himself too tired to wake completely. So he listened with his eyes closed to Dean munching on the remains of breakfast while he walked around to his bed. Suddenly, the chewing stopped.

"What the—?" Dean said softly. Sam could hear the zipper of his duffel bag opening further, the soft hush of something slipping out of an envelope.

It was quiet for a long time. Sam grew nervous. The gift shop still had some older holiday cards tucked among cards for Christmas. He’d picked out the corniest one, nothing too sentimental or emotional that would have his brother running for the holy water. But it'd been seventeen years and Sam feared he might have overstepped his bounds. And yet, seeing that old faded card poking out of the black journal told him his brother would somehow understand a child's voice claiming that maternal fingers were people who just took care of you.

"Stupid kid. Trying to trick me into some dumb ass Hallmark card moment." Dean could be heard putting the card back in the envelope. "Least he spelled my name right this time," Dean muttered even as Sam heard the flap of leather as the card was stowed safely away.

Sam sighed. Maybe on the way to Auburn, he'd coax Dean into talking about their mom. Not for Sam, but for Dean. To remind him it was okay to remember her, remember her in more ways than just knowing what to do when his little brother was sick. Sam didn't remember her at all, craved to know her. Yet, somehow, every time he'd been sick, every time he'd skinned a knee, even as he lay feverish and sick in a grungy motel with a brother who never left his side, used vapor rub, and rested his forehead against his as he swore a blue streak if Sam seized one more freakin’ time, maybe, just maybe, in a little way he had.

Suddenly, Dean softly swore. Something pink and lacy landed on Sam's face. He smirked to himself underneath it.

Guess Dean just found the “Mom Knows Best” apron.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This was written with help from the dedicated and expert editing of so many. I can't take complete credit for this fic.
> 
> Feedback is like cookies. I _like_ cookies! Please feed the cookie monster at your risk. LOL.


End file.
